


Clay Dreams

by Stariceling



Series: Resemblance and Remembrance [2]
Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: Flashbacks, M/M, Pastfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-04-15
Updated: 2007-04-15
Packaged: 2017-12-05 12:57:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/723557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stariceling/pseuds/Stariceling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yami Bakura is troubled by dreams or memories... while Bakura grows closer to Honda.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> While it is a bit short compared to the other parts of this series, I feel this is a necessary segue between the first moment of Resemblance and the events that come after. This is the first of three memories, or possibly dreams, that I intend to explore. Don’t really have more to say here, so please enjoy.

Where am I?

I smell wet clay. It’s one of those smells that seems to get everywhere, so thick I can taste it in the air. I can feel it in my mouth. I never liked that smell, like mud in my lungs and on my tongue.

So why does it feel so much like home? This cool, dark, clay-smelling place. I have no home. Where am I?

I know this place. My eyes take in the tiniest bit of light, starlight that finds its way inside, and I adjust.

Even though the room is too tightly packed to naturally fit two people in this corner, between the shelves, I know I’m not alone in my space. I can hear him breathing. I can see the dim shape of his body, curled in the corner. He’s sleeping against the wall so I can have space to sleep comfortably. What a waste. I would have rather slept with him.

As soon as I touch him, he’s awake. I can feel my throat work, saying something to remind him that it’s just me. Unlike me, he does not see in the dark.

I’m sure it’s his name I’m saying, but I can’t hear my own voice.

He murmurs something back, it sounds like a curse, or a prayer. The words are harsh and raw and foreign to my ears, but I know what he’s called me. ‘Little wildcat.’ I know because he rubs his hand down my back the way he always does when he says it.

I laugh at the endearment. My senses are keener and my claws are sharper than any cat, but he doesn’t need to know that. Not yet.

His hands are exploring my body cautiously. They pass over my arms, my shoulders, my chest. I flex under his hands, and he whispers his admiration. It almost makes up for the difference in our sizes. He’s tall enough to give him an advantage in size that annoys me, and muscular enough to make up for his height.

His hands are always rough when I touch them. A laborer’s hands, built for reshaping the world. I want to see him wielding a weapon in those hands, or crushing bones with them. I think I am the most dangerous thing those hands have ever held.

He reaches out to hold me with them now, apparently unable to guess my thoughts. He ends up cradling me like a child when I am at my most bloodthirsty, and I hate him for it. I tilt my head up to bite at his neck, hard. His chin is level with my forehead when he holds me like this, and I hate him for that too.

His neck tastes like clay. It’s because that smell is everywhere. It even soaks into his skin. I bite again, harder. I almost want to taste his blood. I can feel his pulse under my lips, but I stop short of drawing blood. I can only stop myself because I know that if I go too far everything will be over far, far too quickly. I want him alive.

He bends his head to kiss my neck in retaliation. He started doing that. . . I’m not sure when. He kisses me there each time I bite him now, as if he thinks it’s a game.

He whispers again, and even though I know the word I can’t place it. It sounds so familiar, so personal. I should know that word.

“What are you doing?” I want to make a demand out of the words, but I feel too tired to even do that. His presence makes me strangely sluggish.

“You’re cold.”

There is a pre-dawn chill in the air, but that’s nothing to complain about. The day’s heat will be baking the city in a few hours.

He lays one hand over my heart and whispers, “In here.”

I want to laugh again. Being called cold-hearted is something I can be proud of, yet he sounds so concerned, as if I’m in danger because of it.

“It’s growing,” he tells me, “something, dread. . .” He sounds like he’s fishing for words, not quite sure how to describe the thing he’s discovered. I take a moment to consider his words. Can he sense the Diabound somehow? That shouldn’t be possible. I’ve never given it form when he was around. I never had to.

If he can feel what’s inside me without a physical manifestation, sense my Ka without even needing a millennium item, then I need to be sure no one else discovers his skill. If this is a talent that can be put to use, then I should be the one using it. He is mine, after all.

“What are you talking about?”

He stops, picking out words with care before explaining, “It’s another layer, under your skin. There’s something else inside of you.”

“And you?” A playful nip at the spot where his neck and shoulder join coaxes the words out of him faster.

“Only you.”

Either he’s making the whole thing up, or the Diabound is the only Ka he has come into contact with that’s strong enough for him to sense on his own. This odd skill of his is probably useless to me, and to others. It doesn’t matter. I don’t need that from him. There is enough I can take from him already, whenever I want.

I can have him whenever I want, so I don’t care about leaving him to wait. Dawn bears down on us. I have less than an hour to disappear. I won’t be found here when the night ends and his work begins.

I work my way out of his arms. I don’t think he wants me to go. He keeps touching me, offering silent invitations to curl up in his arms again. Next time I won’t wake him if he’s going to try to keep me still. I hate staying in one place for too long.

I slip outside in the dark and he follows. The smell of clay is stronger out here. It gets into that room and sticks to everything, even him. It covers all other smells in this area certain times of the year. At night you can choke on it.

He’s making a pest of himself, rubbing my shoulders and offering to shelter me again tonight. I wonder if he’s still worked up about my cold heart. That bothers some people, and I usually enjoy that, but his reaction is just annoying.

Then he calls me a word that makes me throw off his hands in one harsh motion. A word reserved for jewels and rare metals and treasures that he has never seen or touched. I want to be gone. I know I can disappear into the shadows in an instant and that he’ll still stand there watching, even though he can’t see in the dark. Suddenly I hate him for that too.

He doesn’t even seem to mind. He must be used to my moods by now, and I remind myself that it’s good for him. He’s learning to adapt to me. He just whispers that strange word again. So familiar. It’s not until I start to dash away from him that I remember what it is.

My name. He knows my name, yet I get the feeling that I never told him. I want to turn back but I can’t seem to control my body. I feel like I’m trapped in a dream, gliding forward without conscious thought.

A dream. As soon as I realize that I’m slipping, falling through the sand and disappearing, leaving my old body behind.

There’s another body waiting for me outside of the dream, someone shaking me, trying to wake me. I only want to wake and find myself back in that narrow hole of a room, but. . . It’s not his voice trying to wake me. Every corner of my mind wants to scream out in anger, because this is not his voice and that is not! my! name!

“Ryou, wake up already.” A worried hiss in my ear makes me open my eyes groggily. Not my name. Not my body. Not my time. I am very unhappy with this rude awakening.

I feel like I’m staring up at his evil twin. Or possibly his mild-mannered twin. I don’t know which would be worse.

Honda. This name comes to me so easily that I hate him even more for it. He scoots back a little, eyeing me warily. I wonder if he knows it’s me and not his helpless, harmless little ‘Ryou.’

“Are you sick? You fell asleep in your clay.”

Clay? I lift my head from the table and peel some of the hateful stuff off of my cheek. That explains the smell.

“I think you ate some of it.”

I’m not listening to him. That was more than a dream. A memory. One long dead, dried up and gone. It’s already fading, but it was so clear a few seconds ago. Already his words are falling out of my head. His voice, his face, his taste; I’m losing them all. Though the taste might have just been the clay. My mind cannot consciously grip those precious memories, even as they were in my dream.

“Are you okay?”

“Mmn.” I’m not listening. There’s something about what he said that bothers me now. What was it? Something he saw or felt or knew that he shouldn’t have known. It’s not my name that he shouldn’t know. I remember him knowing my name then, as I must have once known his. What was it?

“Bakura?”

Honda’s backing off, becoming more impersonal. He’s realized something is wrong. He probably realizes who he’s talking to. I don’t care if he knows. I hate him, and I can’t bring myself to care.

I knead the clay between my hands. The smell reminds me of him, someone else I hated. Someone I hated so much and so passionately that it made him as precious as any treasure could ever be, and even more so than simple jewels or gold. It made him irreplaceable. It made him mine.

I can feel Honda watching me, shaping his own clay into some lumpy, turtle-like creature. It’s his frustrating resemblance to the man I was dreaming about that made me realize just what he was. He was precious in a way that makes me hate Honda even more for not being able to replace him.

When it came to objects, to treasure, there was always something new to steal. There was always something new to covet or destroy, something better or richer or rarer. Now that he is gone, his body crumbled away into sand, there is nothing left to replace him. I go on hating him with nothing to take his place. Not even Honda. No matter how much physical resemblance there might be I can not, will not, let Honda have his place.


	2. After Clay Dreams: Honda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Directly after the first part of ‘Clay Dreams.’ Still playing in art class.

If it had been Ryou who had greeted him when he finally woke up, Honda thought he would have helped him clean the clay off of his face, teased him for falling asleep in art and using his clay for a pillow in the first place, and maybe gotten his opinion on his own sculpture. Instead he was left with nothing but the frustration of wondering why the spirit had to show up at a time like this.

Stealing a glance at where Yugi and Jounouchi sat at the next table, Honda wondered if he should let them know that Bakura had changed. He doubted there was much damage Bakura could do in this situation, unless he had a previously unexpressed fondness for sealing people in shapeless lumps of clay. He had done similar things before, of course, but this wasn’t exactly a game.

Jounouchi leaned on Yugi’s shoulder for a moment, and said something that Honda couldn’t catch, but it made Yugi laugh. Honda decided not to bother about it. He should be able to contain Bakura long enough to warn them if the situation called for it. Probably.

Just then Bakura slumped against Honda’s shoulder, drawing his attention. It seemed he had fallen asleep again, at least until Honda noticed that his eyes were only half-closed. He reached over to rub his hand in Bakura’s hair playfully. It seemed that he had his friend Bakura (‘Ryou,’ he corrected, as he reminded himself of his recent attempts to call his quiet friend by his first name), back. At least for the moment.

Ryou looked up at him and gave him a rather reluctant smile. Honda wondered if he was unhappy about the spirit taking over his body again, or because he had been caught falling asleep in class.

“What’s wrong?” he asked Ryou quietly, leaning down to better look into his eyes.

“I’m a little tired, that’s all.”

Honda shifted a little closer. “Does your head hurt?”

“Should it?”

Honda wanted to laugh, but he managed to turn it into a cough and cover it with his hand. He didn’t want Ryou to take his laughing the wrong way. “No. I just thought maybe I can do something about it.” Honda put down his clay figure and wiped his hands vigorously on his pants.

Ryou didn’t look particularly convinced that Honda had anything good in mind, but he allowed Honda to tilt his head up and run his hands through his hair. After a few seconds he closed his eyes, and he looked more trusting that Honda was sure he deserved.

Honda didn’t know what else to do, so he started to massage Ryou’s scalp. He started light, petting Ryou’s hair more than anything, but then he started dig his fingers into Ryou’s hair, rubbing in small circles along the sides of Ryou’s head.

Ryou let out a small noise that sounded wonderfully content, and Honda couldn’t help smiling. He scratched playfully behind Ryou’s ear and whispered, “Good boy,” when Ryou leaned into the massage.

Ryou laughed, and that tiny sound was all the encouragement Honda needed to continue. He rubbed very gently behind Ryou’s ear and down his neck, trying to coax him into moving closer as he did so.

Ryou resisted being drawn closer to Honda for a moment. When Honda drew him in again he murmured, “That’s really relaxing,” peeking up at Honda before he continued, “It’s making me sleepy.” With that he allowed himself to shift towards Honda, until his head actually rested against Honda’s shoulder.

Honda was a little worried by that. Ryou always seemed to need an excuse to be near him. That was far more troublesome than the fact that Ryou apparently wanted to get close to him in the first place. Maybe the first step to figuring out what Ryou was hiding from him was to show him that he didn’t need the excuse. Even though the few short weeks since he had promised himself that he would discover what was bothering Ryou had yielded no new information, Honda still wanted to ascertain for himself what was going on.

Putting his arm lightly around Ryou’s waist, Honda kept the rest of his body still so that Ryou could lean comfortably against his shoulder. He wasn’t even thinking of their position anymore, or at least not how it would look to other people. The important thing was that Ryou was relaxed at last. He wasn’t acting overly nervous or embarrassed or completely flustered the way he normally did once he managed to get close to Honda. Maybe the simple fact that Honda had been the one to instigate the position with a few friendly touches made a real difference.

Ryou stole a quick peek up at Honda, and Honda noticed the tiniest hint of a blush on his cheeks. He had celebrated too soon. He would have to do something to reassure Ryou now.

“You know, Ryou,” Honda started, without knowing exactly what he was going to say, “Anytime you need to lean on me, I’ll be glad to hold you.”

Ryou’s blush became a little more pronounced and he lifted his head a little, so that he wasn’t putting any actual weight on Honda’s shoulder. “Is that really okay?” He looked very skeptical, as if he couldn’t believe that Honda wouldn’t mind.

To be perfectly honest, Honda did mind. His pride wouldn’t ordinarily have allowed him to cuddle someone like this, but it seemed that, for whatever reason, Ryou needed it. If his friend needed a bit of physical contact for comfort, at least it was something he could provide.

“For you, it’s fine.” Honda figured that in this case, the truth would be best for Ryou. He wouldn’t have let anyone else get away with it, but for Ryou he was fine with making an exception. “I’ll be your pillow anytime.”

Ryou let the weight of his head rest against Honda’s shoulder again, and Honda knew he had to be feeling better already. He had done something right. Once Ryou knew that it was safe to approach Honda the way he needed to, it wouldn’t be long before Honda knew everything he wanted to know. Ryou wouldn’t hide his troubles much longer, he was sure. Then he could focus on getting rid of the problem that kept making Ryou so nervous.


	3. After Clay Dreams: Bakura

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Directly after the second part of ‘Clay Dreams.’ Still playing in art class.

I can hardly believe I’m not dreaming. Maybe I am, since I still feel so heavy, and so sleepy. My mind is reacting so slowly and calmly to all of this that it might still be a dream.

I can feel myself blushing, though. My face is burning. I think that has to be real. I can hear how the conversation at the next table is suddenly just a touch too loud. It sounds a little strained. Is that our fault? I can smell the wet clay so strongly. I think Honda got some of it in my hair, even though I can’t bring myself to care. Those little uncomfortable things make this moment oddly real.

More importantly, I can feel him in the back of my mind. Usually he allows me my dreams. I think they bother him somehow, or maybe he simply prefers his own. Even when he does intrude, it’s at least in his own form, not as the voice in the back of my head.

That’s how I know this is not a dream. He’s not here in that separate body that is mine, yet not mine. I can feel him grumbling in the back of my head, snarling and growling to himself, and wishing the worst of fates on Honda. My Honda.

That must be what feels so much like a dream. I can feel Honda’s shoulder under my cheek, supporting me. Even as I close my eyes to feign sleep and try to make the heat leave my face, he doesn’t seem to mind. It’s strange being this close to him. It’s too hot and tenuous and dreamlike for me to believe that it could be real.

His arm is around me, not quite supporting me, but always there just in case I need the support. It’s an odd sensation, almost being held by him. I can feel his hand on my side, resting under my ribs, his fingers not-quite tickling my stomach. It’s wonderful.

Much too wonderful to be real. I can’t believe it. I can feel an answering ripple of disbelief from the back of my mind. At me, though, not at Honda. I can’t tell if he’s calling me an idiot for being surprised at Honda, or for accepting his friendly contact so easily. Surely he didn’t see this coming either, not that he would ever admit to not being omniscient.

I wonder if Honda meant it when he said he would be my pillow anytime. Surely he wasn’t offering to do this again? He must have just wanted me to relax, because he could tell I was feeling guilty. I couldn’t stop thinking that he wouldn’t really want my curled against him like this. I still can’t stop thinking about it.

Then again, I’m a terrible judge of character sometimes. I never would have guessed Honda would let me get this close, let alone in a crowded room where he has to keep up his dignity, let alone be the one to start it. He’s looked after me once or twice when I was feeling sick from having the other take control of my body, but. . .

Maybe that’s the reason. I didn’t realize until now, because the feeling isn’t that strong, but he’s been in my body. I don’t think he’s really used it, though. Perhaps he’s been dreaming in my body. Perhaps he hasn’t done anything physical with it. Still, it would explain this odd far-away feeling that’s keeping me from truly appreciating what Honda’s doing for me. It would explain just why he’s trying to do so much for me just now. He’s worried that ‘other me’ will surface again.

I can feel a sort of hot, thick, satisfied malice from the back of my mind that lets me know I’m right. I think he must have done something to Honda, but if he exerted himself the out-of-body feeling should be stronger. Besides, if he had done something bad, then Honda shouldn’t want to be close to me like this.

“Thank you.” I only want to be sure he hasn’t done anything to Honda. Maybe I’m paranoid, but something about his behavior is definitely off. I look up at him, and almost lose my nerve to say anything when he catches my gaze. “I know I haven’t been myself. I mean, earlier. . .” I don’t know what happened, or what to say about it.

“Don’t sweat it.” He’s smiling at me now, and I don’t know why. Is he being nice to me just to annoy the other? It’s working. I can feel irritation rolling along the back of my mind from just that smile. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“I’m sorry.” I can’t meet his eyes, knowing something must have happened. I can never forget the way he looked the first time I hurt him, before he realized that the ‘Bakura’ who had attacked him and his friends was someone else. Even coming from a lead miniature, I know I won’t be able to forget that glare, that raw anger at being betrayed, as long as I live. I never want to see it again, though I know how little of the choice to not hurt him is under my control. Even though he was angry at the other me, even though he offered me his trust and forgiveness afterward, I will never forget the feeling of him hating me.

Honda tickles me lightly, making me jump. He’s trying to make me smile, I think.

“There’s nothing for you to be sorry for.”

I know better than to try to explain, or to apologize again. He’s somehow happy like this, so I’m going to enjoy it too.

I’m not fooling anyone, not myself or the one laughing silently at me. I’m so comfortable curled against him. As much as I know I shouldn’t, I love this. I’m so happy. I couldn’t ask for more.

I know what it feels like to be hated by him. I wonder what it would feel like to be loved by him? I wonder if it would feel something like this.

The other has settled into his normal state around Honda. His comfortable hate. He’s keeping a close eye on me today. Maybe he’s worried that I’ll change Honda’s feelings towards us? I know that can’t really be it, but it’s nice to dream.

I want to savor the feeling of Honda’s shoulder under my cheek and his strong arm around me, but I can feel myself dozing off. I want to dream only of him.


End file.
